Feedback is encouraged.

Website for earlier parts: http://www.midnightrevolution.org/gundam


"HOW DARE YOU LOOK SO MUCH LIKE MY SAFFIR-CHAN!"

http://www.homestead.com/quicksilverslabyrinth

http://www.method.org/gundam


---------------------------------
Do You Yahoo!?
Find a job, post your resume on Yahoo! Careers.


-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
-- File: Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency.txt
-- Desc: Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency.txt

Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, 

Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka 

and all original characters and plot copyright 

2000 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please 

ask permission before reposting. 

 

SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING 

SAINAN NO KEKKA 

ACT VI, PART III 

Sou yo watashi no haato wa 

Tokubetsu na koi o suru no yo 

Tatoeba ano hito to...  

Kakaekirenai hodo yume o mite 

Minna kanaeru no 

Sono tabi-goto ni chigau yume o 

Oikaketa to shite mo Ii ja nai



Yes, my heart 

Feels a special kind of love 

Just like with him... 

 I have so many dreams that I can't hold them 

all 

They will all come true 

If along the way a different dream I decide to 

follow 

There's nothing wrong with tha

t--Gundam Wing, Joy to My Life 

[Dorothy Catalonia image song]

 

**************************************** 

Scene IX: Shattering the Cavern of Sleep 

"Strap on the wings and push me over and 

watch me sink. 

Maybe tonight I'll get it right finally." 

--Oblivion Dust, Plastic Wings

****************************************

 

You left me alone. 



The sun was setting as Darkflight stared out the 

entrance of the alleyway, hands in his pockets. 

The wind was cool, drying the sweat on the back 

of his neck, rustling his tattered jacket and long 

hair. His bangs tickled the corners of his eyes. 



They were at the border of Russia, about to 

cross into the European state, and the flickering 

neon signs were conglomerations of English and 

Russian mixed with a little French. Across the 

street was yet another cheap hotel, yet another 

spur-of-the-moment location where that�that 

boy Wufei had decreed that they should spend 

the night. And of course, instead of arguing, 

instead of using his instinct and the skills that 

Darkflight knew he possessed, Wing had 

agreed. Wing always agreed now, with a kind of 

calm acceptance in his voice that Darkflight had 

never heard before. 



It frightened him. 



He had thought he knew Wing, but with the 

intrusion of Wufei into his world, that assumption 

was shattered. The Chinese boy knew things 

about his partner that Darkflight had never even 

imagined, was able to pull Wing's deepest 

feelings from their core the way Darkflight had 

never been able to do. It wasn't fair. It wasn't 

fair. 



Or, the little voice whispered inside his mind, 

you're jealous. Because Wing is part of 

something larger than you'll ever be, and you 

want what he has. Because all said and done, 

you're just a murderer. And he is a warrior. 



He scuffed his shoe into the dirt, a rough jerking 

motion. It didn't matter. Once Wufei found out 

what kind of person Wing had become, he 

wouldn't want to hang around. Wufei would 

leave, turn away in disgust, dismiss his former 

partner in rage and disgust, and go try to win his 

private little war by himself. And it would be all 

right again. 



"I'm not giving up on you, Wing," he whispered 

fiercely. "You don't belong with them. You 

belong in the Breaks. We're alike, you and I." 



The stairs up to the room were creaky and the 

rusted iron railing was missing screws in more 

places than he could count. He twisted the door 

handle, expecting Wufei to be sitting up on his 

bed or at the table writing something, glaring at 

him with those almond eyes that were so like 

and yet unlike Wing's and even his own. Saying, 

what are you doing here? Get out. You don't 

belong with us, you scum. 



Wufei had never vocalized his feelings, but 

Darkflight could see it in the Chinese boy's eyes. 



You're not like us. 



But Wufei was not there, and at first he thought 

the room was empty. The window was partly 

open, the cheap curtains fluttering in the evening 

breeze, and then Darkflight saw the lump in the 

sheets, the erratic breathing coming from the 

second bed, and he moved closer. Wing was 

wrapped up in the sheets, hair tousled, sweat 

running down his neck and bare chest. One arm 

was flung out, wrapped around the dirty pillow, 

as if warding off some nightmare. 



He was sleeping quietly now, but Darkflight 

guessed he had had some sort of nightmare. 

They had both woken up nights to the sounds of 

each others' nightmares. He wondered what this 

one had been. 



Wufei would never understand. 



"Wing?" he said softly. 



The eyelids fluttered, slowly opened, then his 

partner - former partner - jolted upright in bed, 

his posture tense. 



"Darkflight," Wing said. 



For a long moment he struggled with words, 

trying to think of something, anything, to say. 

"How are you feeling?" he finally said, mentally 

cursing himself as the words came out of his 

mouth. 



"Cut the shit," Wing said. There was a gust of 

wind from the open window and Wing pulled the 

covers back, padded over, slammed the window 

shut. Wufei's papers on the desk beside the 

door rustled slightly. 



"What are you doing here?" 



"I brought you some stuff," Darkflight said. "If 

you want it. If you still want it." 



He held out the needle and the pouch with one 

hand, watching the Japanese boy's profile, 

watching as one hand slowly closed into a fist, 

opened, closed again. Like a heart beating. 



"I don't want your help," Wing said. 



"I'm not asking for you to take it," Darkflight 

snarled, his temper breaking, dumping the 

needle and the pouch on the bed, where Wing's 

feet made a shadowy outline of bumps under 

the tattered bedspread. "It's not a choice. This is 

yours." 



"Darkflight," Wing said again, and Darkflight 

paused, turned slightly towards the doorway. 



"What?" 



"Go home," Wing said. And as Darkflight turned 

back around to glance at his partner, he caught 

the faintest glimpse of sadness on the scarred 

face, a nameless emotion of longing and fear 

and hope, before it flickered away behind the 

blank eyes. "Go home, Darkflight." 



"Damn you to hell," he shot back. His hands 

were shaking. "We've had this conversation 

before. We have it every fucking night. I'm not 

going home. I'm not leaving you here." 



He expected a muttered "whatever," a familiar 

growl before Wing kicked him out of the room, 

as usual. But there was none of that, and he 

blinked in surprise before he saw the shadow of 

the corner of his eye and realized that Wing was 

getting out of bed. Walking towards him. 

Stopping. 



"I'm a Gundam pilot," Wing said. 



"No you're not!" Darkflight whirled, for some 

reason feeling cornered even though Wing was 

half a room away from him, standing relaxed 

with hands at his sides, staring toward the floor. 

"Wing, if I hear that out of you one more time, I 

swear I'll-" 



"I'm a Gundam pilot," Wing said. When he raised 

his head, his eyes were clear. "I was raised to 

be a Gundam pilot." 



Darkflight swallowed. "I was lying in bed today 

and I was thinking about something." Wing 

paused. "You know, it's not everyone who can 

be as lucky as I am. I've had a shitty life, 

Darkflight, but you know what? I've had great 

people around me." 



Darkflight blinked, frowning, feeling frightened 

but not knowing why. "Wing, I think you need 

some rest," he said, trying to keep his voice from 

shaking. 



"I've had great people around me," Wing 

repeated. Watching him, reflecting. "Duo. Trowa. 

Quatre and Wufei. Relena." His voice broke a 

little on the last word, as if the very mention of 

that name was hard for him. "You and Atsuki. I 

couldn't have made it this far�without you. 

Darkflight. You know that." 



"Cut the shit," Darkflight whispered. "I know you, 

Wing. I know-" 



"No you don't. You don't know me�How could 

you know me, when I don't know myself?" 



"Wing?" 



"Stop lying to yourself, Darkflight," Wing said. 

Turning away to face the rising moon. "I 

remember�I remember Treize's death. Did you 

see it, Darkflight? Did you see the way the 

sword cut through the mobile suit like it was 

water? Did you hear Wufei screaming?" 



Goosebumps prickled on his skin and he felt 

something terrible clawing at the back of his 

brain. "Wing, I-" 



"The scar on my face. It was a gift, you know." 

Fingers tracing it, running up and down its 

gnarled length. "A gift�from the man who called 

himself Zechs Merquise. I remember that now." 



"What?" 



"He killed me," Wing said, as if it was the most 

common thing in the world. "He killed me, or at 

least I thought he did. But I was the one who 

killed myself." 



Wing's voice was calm, serene. He suddenly 

remembered that night he had gone home to 

break the news of their next target, heard Wing 

laughing, that mad insane, frenzied laughter and 

the eerie calmness in its wake. This was not that 

kind of calmness. This was the voice of a man 

who had had a revelation. 



And for the first time, he realized, truly realized, 

that the boy standing before him was someone 

he did not know. 



For two years, Wing had been the stability in his 

life, the one he had shared life and death with, 

fears and triumphs. Because they were alike. 

Because neither he nor Wing had pasts, and so 

they had to create their own. 



Wing had a past. There was no Wing anymore. 

He was someone else. 



"I get the point," Darkflight said dully. "I'm not 

wanted. I'll leave." 



"It's not you, you know," Wing said. Padding 

back to the bed but not moving to get back in it, 

staring at the shining needle on the blanket. "It's 

me. We're different, you and I. You've always 

known that, haven't you?" 



No, he wanted to say. "What's so different about 

us?" 



"The things they did to me�you wouldn't 

understand. I was changed. Warped. I don't 

deserve�" 



The shaking was stronger in his hands now, in 

his legs, and he had to get out of the room or he 

would go mad, stumbling down the stairs into 

the open air. Heard Wing shouting his name in 

question behind him, not caring. Running away, 

away from the lighted buildings to some 

semblance of darkness that he welcomed more 

than he did the light. Falling against the sagging 

metal railing a few blocks away from the motel, 

panting. 



The things they did to me�you wouldn't 

understand. 



He had a pounding headache, but he had just 

had an injection and wouldn't need one for a few 

hours yet. When Wing had spoken those words 

he had suddenly seen a flash inside his mind, a 

memory. 



Of something. 



He'd had flashes before, starting back before the 

time he had met Wing, before he had 

established his group as the leader of assassin 

groups in the Breaks, when his father was still 

alive. He'd had glimpses of memory that he 

couldn't place, events that triggered something 

inside him, nights when he would wake up 

thrashing, gasping for air, calling the name of 

someone he didn't know. 



Niisan, he would scream, niisan! 



And then if someone was there, and that 

someone was usually Wing, would shake him 

and say wake up, Darkflight, are you all right? 

You're going to wake up the neighbors, and you 

don't want them to get mad and come barging in 

with a gun to shut you up. 



And he would say, it's just a nightmare. 



He had known for a long time that it was not just 

a nightmare. 



He remembered hands grasping at him, voices 

out of the air. He had been young. It was like 

looking into the middle of a thick fog, a blood red 

fog, and then darkness. 



The memories had grown more intense as time 

as passed, as he forced himself to think about 

them, to sharpen them in his mind, and he 

remembered that room, the room full of clean, 

polished medical equipment, the men in white 

coats staring down at him, his arms tied behind 

his back. 



There had been times he had not known if it was 

a real memory. 



He raised his head suddenly at the sound of 

footsteps, and before he could turn and run, he 

saw the familiar scarred face rounding the 

corner, the long tail of black hair. Wing was still 

dressed in only a pair of loose pants, but at the 

sight of him, Darkflight could have sworn that the 

other boy looked relieved. He didn't move as 

Wing pounded to a stop in front of him, 

shoulders heaving, barely sweating in the cool 

night air. 



"Are you all right?" 



"Yes," he said curtly. "Leave me alone." 



"Hey�I'm sorry. If I said anything�" Wing 

trailed off, looking down at his feet. "I didn't 

mean�" 



Darkflight found himself thrown for a loop the 

second time tonight. Wing apologizing? Wing 

feeling sorry? 



"Wing�" he said, and the other boy's head shot 

up. The cobalt eyes were strangely 

compassionate in the moonlight. 



"What happened to you?" 



The double meaning of the question didn't catch 

him until it was out of his mouth, and he watched 

his one-time partner, wondering what meaning 

he would take. If he would take the easy way 

out, or if he would delve deep into the past and 

release that knowledge which both of them were 

afraid to hear. 



Actually, when one thought about it long 

enough, there was no easy answer. 



"I can't ever go back to being Heero Yuy," Wing 

said, "so I thought I'd just try to become a better 

person." 



"That's not what I meant," Darkflight said. Not 

giving him a choice. You tell me what you were 

talking about back there, that thing which hit me 

and made me remember. 



"What?" 



"You said�." He stumbled over his words. "That 

you're different. That�I wouldn't understand." 



"Doctor J," Wing said. 



"Who?" 



"Doctor J. He was the one who�took me in. I'm 

not sure what happened�" he trailed off. "They 

did�things to me." 



"Wing?" 



"I can't really remember," Wing snapped. "Stop 

asking me about it. Genetic experiments. 

Tampering with the human mind. Call it what 

you want. I'm not normal. I'm a freak." Rounding 

on him. "Is that what you want to hear?" 



He didn't even remember himself falling, hands 

letting go of the iron railing, only remember the 

moon rushing up at him and Wing's voice again 

in his ears, calling his name. 



Except it wasn't Wing's voice, and the moon was 

gone and there were bright lights, blinding him 

as a hand was torn from his grasp and he 

reached out his arms, trying to 

touch�something. 



Someone. Someone who was 

calling�calling�calling� 



Hideki! 



And he heard himself responding niisan! Niisan! 



Don't leave me, niisan! 



And then a sharp pain at the back of his head 

and the world fled away in a shower of stars. 



**************************************** 

Scene X: Fear of Dying 

"Free�I want to be free 

And move among the stars 

You know, they really aren't so far." 

--Cowboy Bebop, Blue

****************************************

 

The electric light on the bedside table was on its 

lowest setting, but somehow, looking at it 

through the canvas of the tent, Noin still felt that 

it was too bright. She'd turned it on earlier when 

the rain had finally stopped and the sun had 

started going down behind the bleak cliffs, when 

she'd brought Milliard his dinner. He had been 

sitting up in bed, staring into space. He had a 

tendency to do that, when he was injured. 



"Noin," he greeted her, with a half smile. 



"You'll hurt yourself," she had retorted, setting 

his dinner down and pushing him gently on the 

shoulder. "You need to lie down." 



"You always say that." 



"And you never listen to me, and you end up 

bedridden for an extra week or two." But she 

couldn't help smiling. "It's good to see you 

talking again." 



"It's good to see you again," he murmured, and 

one of his hands reached up to touch the one 

placed on his shoulder. She shivered slightly. 

"I've missed you." 



She hadn't been sure how to take that comment. 

It had been two years�two years in which she 

had thought he was dead, dead and gone 

forever from her life. Etille's message through 

the walls of her cell had been a shock, seeing in 

person the man she had once known was even 

more of a shock. 



He had cut his hair. The Zechs Merquise she 

remembered would never have cut his hair. 



I'm Milliard now, he had said to her. Milliard 

Peacecraft. I changed my name for good. 



She had continued to call him Zechs, and he 

hadn't said anything to the contrary, but 

somehow it felt odd, talking and laughing and 

planning with the man who a few days ago had 

been frozen in memory in a far corner of her 

mind. 



It was fully dark outside now and she'd come 

over to Milliard's tent to make sure he was all 

right before she went over to Gustavson's camp. 

Milliard had authorized her to go to the meetings 

in his place, had given her his planning and 

strategy briefings before she had even asked. 

She felt bad for Dorothy. The girl was his 

second-in-command, and technically it would be 

she who would have stepped into Milliard's 

place. But at the same time, Noin was a 

professional soldier, a full-fledged member of 

the Preventers. Dorothy was a stand-in. 



Surely that was what Milliard intended. 



Did you know that Dorothy Catalonia is in love 

with Milliard Peacecraft? 



Those words should not have bothered her as 

much as they did. What did Etille know about 

Zechs? She'd known Zechs since 

childhood�since the Academy. They had 

practically grown up together�there had been a 

time when she'd known him better than any 

other living person. There had been a time 

when, in the back of her mind, she had 

wondered if he would be the man she would 

marry. 



That was when she had been younger and more 

na�ve, but theirs was a bond that was deeper 

than blood. At least, had been, before the war. 

Now she wasn't so sure. 



Dorothy's been here, and you haven't, the voice 

nagged. She's worked with Zechs these past 

months while you've been a prisoner�she 

knows him too. Dorothy's pretty. Dorothy's 

smart. Dorothy Dorothy Dorothy. 



"Shut up!" she hissed, slapping a hand to her 

forehead. 



"Talking to yourself again?" 



Her hand was on the flap of the tent, preparing 

to go in, and the voice caught her by surprise. 



"Oh�"she said as the figure emerged into the 

light. "Hello, Dorothy." 



"Hello, Noin." 



They regarded each other for a moment, Noin 

thinking that Dorothy didn't look at all like she 

remembered her. The long golden hair was 

pinned up inside a heavy combat helmet, and 

there were streaks of soot and dirt on her face. 

Her fatigues were worn and dirty, and her boots 

had obviously not seen a shine in days. She 

looked like�a soldier. 



The old nagging knocked at the back of her 

head, and Noin ignored it. 



"What are you doing here?" 



"Checking up on Milliard." Dorothy's eyes were 

hard. "What, I don't have a right to see him? I 

am the deputy commander." 



Noin frowned. "I never said that. I was just 

making conversation." 



Dorothy's lip twisted in a half-smile, half-sneer. 

"Thank you, oh great one, for thinking me worthy 

of conversation." 



"What's that supposed to mean?" Noin 

demanded, but Dorothy was already pushing her 

way past into the tent, leaving her standing 

outside in the darkness, hands on her hips. She 

was tempted to go in after her, wrench her away 

from Milliard and tell her to get the hell out. 



"What's wrong with me?" she mumbled to 

herself, staring at her hands, shadowy shapes of 

pale and brown in the night. "I'm no lovesick girl. 

I'm a soldier." 



She watched Dorothy's shadow shift slightly, 

seated. Another shadow which was probably 

Milliard, sitting up, answering her. She took a 

deep breath, letting it out. The night air was 

cooling fast and she had places to be. She 

opened the tent flap. 



"Dorothy, I need to-" 



"She's telling me something." A deep voice. 

Milliard. Milliard, Zechs, it was all the same. 

"She'll be out in a moment." 



Noin let the flap drop, not knowing whether she 

wanted to hit something or just walk away, away 

from Dorothy and Milliard and their little private 

world, and wait outside the briefing tent until the 

meeting began. She didn't mind waiting out in 

the cold. As long as she didn't have to 

see�them. 



Together. 



Why are you so jealous? 



Because I haven't seen him in two years, she 

answered herself. And I need to make sure that 

he's still mine. 



Dorothy emerged from the tent just as Noin was 

ready to open the flap and disturb them again. 

The girl had a smile on her face which was not 

quite pleasant, and Noin resisted the urge to 

grab her by the shoulders, shake her, tell her 

never to set foot by Milliard again. 



"You can go in now," Dorothy said. 



"Why do you hate me so much?" Noin said. The 

words sounded like someone else's voice had 

spoken them, and the minute they emerged from 

her mouth she wished she could take them 

back. But it was said, and Dorothy didn't look 

surprised. 



"Because you're you," Dorothy said. "And I don't 

like people�like that." 



Before Noin could speak, Dorothy had 

disappeared into the night, around the side of 

the tent. She could hear the combat boots 

crunching on the pebbles and rain-soaked sand. 



She pushed aside the tent flap, went in. Milliard 

was sitting up again, reading the latest field 

reports by the light of the lamp, and she 

stopped, watching him. With his tired eyes, 

wrapped in bandages, he was still beautiful. 



"Aren't you going to come over and take care of 

me?" he said, a grin twisting one corner of his 

mouth. 



She didn't smile back, moving to his bedside and 

sitting down at the foot of the cot, careful not to 

jostle any of his wounded areas. He put down 

the reports. 



"Are you all right?" 



"Not really," Noin said. Hoping all at once that he 

would ask her why, and that he wouldn't. How 

would she explain it? I'm in love with you, and I 

was wondering if you were in love with me? 



"Noin?" One hand reached out to take hers, and 

she pulled it away, the touch sending an electric 

shock through her skin. "Noin, what's wrong?" 



"I just�" she began, and she began to cry. He 

watched her helplessly. She knew he didn't 

know what to say, what to do, when she cried, 

so she just wiped her tears and turned away 

from him, towards the entrance. "Don't mind 

me." 



"I'm really glad you're here," he said. "I really 

am." 



"I know that. I'm a good soldier. You said that 

yourself." 



A rough hand grabbed her arm, and she found 

herself pulled back. Yelping, she fought to keep 

her balance, finding herself looking into the blue 

of his eyes. 



"You know that isn't true," he murmured, his 

gaze boring into hers. "I've waited for two 

years�to get you back." 



"Zechs�" she said breathlessly, pulling away. A 

tear leaked from the corner of her mouth and 

she let it roll down her cheek. "Don't. 

Just�don't." 



You know you want to, the voice whispered. You 

know you want to touch him�why don't you? It's 

perfect. You know you want to do it. 



He released her arm reluctantly, and she stood 

up, going over to the table and pouring some 

water into a wide bowl, wetting a cloth. Almost 

stone-age methods for treating the ill, but they 

still worked. 



"What do you think of�Dorothy?" There. It was 

out. 



"Dorothy?" 



"Yes." Noin brought the bowl over to him, wiping 

his face and neck, then his hands. He winced as 

she brushed the bandages once or twice. "The 

skin should be healing back nicely�you'll be 

fine in a few days." 



"Dorothy is a nice girl�woman," he said. 

Reflecting. "She's loyal. She's a good friend." 

Looking at her. "Why do you want to know?" 



"I-" She stopped. "I just�never mind." Standing 

up again, putting the bowl back on the stand, 

spreading the cloth out to dry. "Never mind." 



"If you're wondering," he said in a low voice, 

"she doesn't compare to you. Not by a long 

shot." 



"Do you remember the day we graduated?" She 

didn't look at him. "When you made me take my 

mobile suit out for a spin, just because?" 



"That was fun. You didn't like it?" 



"Not at first." She turned to him, and he looked 

back at her. "But the memory�" 



"Yes." A whisper. "I know." 



For a moment there was silence in the room, 

and then he stirred. "You need to go. You have 

a meeting." 



"I don't want to," she murmured. 



"What would you do," he said suddenly, "if I had 

died?" 



Noin frowned at him. "Died? You mean, in that 

last raid?" 



He gestured to the bandages covering him. 

"There was a great possibility. I was injured 

badly. What would you have done?" 



"That's not fair, Zechs," she said in a small 

voice. "Don't ask me that." 



"We have another engagement�in a few days. I 

fully expect to participate." 



"Zechs!" 



His eyes burned with a familiar fire. She'd 

missed that fire, but it was wrong�it was wrong 

for the moment. "I'm the commander, Noin. I 

fight with my soldiers, or they don't fight at all." 



"But-" 



"If�something happens to me," he said. "I don't 

want you to grieve. To regret�anything. That's 

happened between us." 



She felt the tears coming again, and she pushed 

herself away from the table. "I have to go," she 

whispered, and fled the tent. 



What would you do if I had died? 



She found herself running, running away from 

the tent which held the man she loved and yet 

feared. Running as fast as her feet would take 

her. "Don't scare me like that, Zechs. Don't�" 



If Milliard had died, after she had found he was 

alive after all�if he had died before she could 

touch him again, before she could see him with 

human eyes instead of through the eyes of a 

machine, to hear his voice with her own ears... 



The stretch leveled out into a hill, and her steps 

came slower and slower, till she came to a stop, 

taking deep gulping breaths. 



"I don't know what I'd do," she said to the empty 

sky. 



Milliard. No, Zechs. He would always be Zechs 

to her. He had died once, and it was if she had 

died with him. 



She did not think she could bear to die again. 





**************************************** 

Scene IX: A Matter of Martyrs 

"Will you join in our crusade? 

Who will be strong and stand with me? 

Somewhere beyond the barricade 

Is there a world you long to see?" 

--Finale, Les Miserables

****************************************



He stared down at his manacled hands, 

wondering why he had calmly accepted this fate. 

He could have fought it; technically he had been 

in the Maguanac's country, living under their 

laws, and they would have done their best to 

keep him from being extradited. They may have 

even succeeded for the World Nation hadn't truly 

clarified its procedure for extradition. Still, 

Quatre didn't want to turn his friends into the 

world's enemies. The Arabian countries had 

always had a reputation for being rogue nations, 

and he didn't want to be responsible for 

fracturing the unstable peace by reminding the 

world of the troubled past. They were moving 

beyond; he had to believe that, or his sacrifices 

throughout the war had been for nothing. 



Quatre looked up as the guard opened the door 

to his cell. He had been meditating quietly, trying 

to put his mind back into order. The emotions of 

the guards outside his cell assaulted his senses, 

and he was almost physically sick from the 

hatred and loathing they projected. 



Strong as those emotions were, the emotions of 

the woman who stalked in like a lioness were so 

overwhelming that he almost fainted. His kokoro 

no uchuu could be controlled, to some extent, 

but some individuals had powerful auras that 

could assault Quatre without his consent. The 

Gundam pilots had been such people. This 

woman was another. 



Her emotions bombarded him, and he winced as 

he tried to sort through them. There was the 

expected dislike and disgust, but interwoven in it 

was a stronger sense of satisfaction and a 

certain inexplicable glee. He could almost feel 

her rubbing her hands with eager anticipation. 



The woman's Mid-Eastern features proclaimed 

that she was of purer blood then he, and he 

frowned slightly, trying to place where he had 

seen her before. She wore a long dress that was 

elegant in its simplicity, and his experienced eye 

recognized that it was one of the designs his 

sister Leila had modeled for Angelico, which 

meant it had cost a small fortune. Her hair was 

long, the longest he'd ever seen on anyone 

since Dorothy. But the casual way she rested 

her hand on her cocked hip that triggered his 

memory. "Fatima," he whispered softly. 



She nodded, her red-glossed lips curving into a 

smile that made him feel like she was about to 

devour him. "Hello, Quatre," she said in Arabic, 

graciously nodding her head. "I must say that I 

certainly never imagined I would be talking to 

you under circumstances like this. I mean, isn't 

your family pacifist?" 



It was not an idle or cruel question. Fatima was 

playing with him, watching him for his reaction. 

So he kept his expression carefully blank. "My 

father wasn't right about everything. You of all 

people should know that," he said quite blandly 

in the same language. There was something 

about being able to express himself in his native 

language- for once he was assured on not 

missing any subtle nuances. 



He felt a spike in her emotions. That obviously 

hadn't been what she had been expecting from 

him, an accused war criminal. It was true she 

had only been involved with Raberba Winner, 

and hoped to marry him at some point, but 

political differences had forced them apart. 

Along with the knowledge that none of Winner's 

thirty children approved of her. Being 

stepmother to the Winner brood would have 

been a nightmare, but she would have accepted 

that in exchange for the money and influence 

the position would have brought her. 



Raberba had dumped her, though, after one of 

his empathic daughters had thrown a fit. It had 

been the straw that broke the proverbial camel's 

back. He could over look some differences in 

political ideology, but he insisted on 

trustworthiness. Qamar had claimed that Fatima 

was more concerned with power then him, and 

she would be seen dead before she allowed the 

relationship to continue. Qamar had been right 

about Fatima's motivations, but that didn't stop 

the other woman from resenting her. 



Now, though, she was grateful. If the brat hadn't 

pulled her stunt, she very well might have ended 

up as Mrs. Winner, which would have had 

disastrous repercussions. Raberba had been a 

traditionalist, and he would have keep her at 

home, locked in a Muslim marriage. Now she 

was powerful and respected in her own right, 

power she had gained through her own cunning 

and political manipulations, rather then by her 

looks. It was more satisfying that way. 



Quatre knew the whole story, though he hadn't 

seen the woman in nearly twelve years. His 

childhood memories were vague, but he could 

feel the force of her presence as she leaned 

closer to speak to him. "Really, Quatre," she 

said. "Why did you ever let things get this bad? 

You didn't allow the lawyers your sister Yaminah 

is assembling to do their job- they could have 

stalled the extradition long enough to build a 

case for immunity. In fact, why did you confess 

in the first place? You should have said nothing, 

maybe even sued for slander. Made them back 

off."



"I confessed because it was the truth," he 

answered, meeting her eyes levelly. 



He had surprised her again. "Can you really be 

that innocent?" she whispered, taking his chin in 

her right hand and tilting it up so she can 

examine his face. "My God, you are," she 

exclaimed. Then she frowned down. "You don't 

look much like your father, but there's something 

about him in your stance- an arrogance, 

perhaps." 



No one had ever called him arrogant. He 

blinked, wanting to refute her accusation, but 

unable to find the words that wouldn't prove her 

right. "Why are you doing this, Fatima?" he 

asked softly. 



"Doing what?" 



He tried not to wince as her fingernails pressed 

against the tender flesh of his neck. "Trying to 

use me. I can't believe it's coincidence you're in 

charge of the investigation against me by 

chance." 



Her fingers tightened, and Quatre was hard 

pressed to keep tears from springing to his eyes. 

"Now, you'd like me to explain everything, like a 

gloating villain? Explain my plans so you can 

plot to foil them? I'm not that stupid. 



"And I have news for you. I'm not the villain of 

the piece- you are. Ask anyone." With that 

stinger, she quit the room, leaving behind a 

young man with his thoughts in turmoil. 



His hand went unconsciously to where she had 

pressed her nails into his skin, wincing as he felt 

the wet warmness that could only be blood. She 

hadn't meant to hurt him, but she had. It hasn't 

been the purpose of her visit. She had been 

playing an entirely different game. She had 

visited briefly to let him know she was there, and 

he was in her power, but there was more to it 

then that. 



He brought his fingers back in front of his eyes, 

staring at the stain on his fingers. So much 

blood. How much blood had he seen? 



Blood. 



In the dimly lit restraining cell, it appeared 

almost black, like the black blood of legendary 

demons. 

I am a demon, he thought. The bogeyman 

mothers used to scare their children into 

behaving. The monster with the cherubic face. 



I am a martyr. 



He remembered being younger, schooling with 

his older sister Ghaida. Ghaida had been unique 

among the family in that she was a Christian. 

Part of that religion seemed to be worshipping a 

man who had hung himself up on a tree, 

suffering for his beliefs. A martyr. One who 

makes great sacrifices or suffers much in order 

to further a belief, cause, or principle. She had 

impressed on him the importance of being 

willing to become a martyr for a cause, not 

fighting back when offered the chance, but 

instead offering himself for peace. 



Quatre had thought it was an incredibly noble 

thing to do. And an incredibly strange one. 



He had chosen to fight, chosen to protect what 

was dear to him using the Gundam. He had 

chosen to stand up for what he believed in. He 

had put aside the beliefs of generations of his 

ancestors, 

become estranged from his father, become 

someone he never would have dreamt possible. 

A warrior. 



This time, he had calmly accepted his fate. 

Fatima had been correct when she pointed out 

how irrational that had been. He had wanted to 

state his innocence, wanted to believe that the 

truth would b all he needed to protect him, but 

that was naive. He was naive. She had been 

right. 



Damn that woman. 



The truth... 



Sometimes the only thing you can fight with is 

the truth. Reeshya had said that, but she hadn't 

meant for him to accept whatever the World 

Nation did to him. She had been begging him 

not to go, not calmly accept an unjust arrest. But 

he had. 



Why had he? he wondered. Why did I let them 

take me away from my family? 



Do I want to be a martyr again? 



Quatre growled in frustration, grabbing the pillow 

on his bed and throwing it against the wall. I am 

not a martyr! Martyrs DIE, and dying is the least 

productive thing I am do! 



I am a hero, he thought firmly. A man of 

distinguished valor or enterprise in danger, or 

fortitude in suffering; a prominent or central 

personage in any remarkable action or event; 

hence, a great or illustrious person. I was 

before. And I'll be again. 



I'm not a businessman. I'm not a villain. I'm not a 

martyr- I'm a hero. We all were. 



Somehow, that realization made him feel better. 

For the first time since the war, he felt at peace 

with himself. 



He knew what he was. 



He knew what he was doing. 



He knew that challenges he had ahead of him. 



And he knew he could win this one. 



"Bring it on, Fatima," he whispered. "I'm ready 

for whatever you can deal out." 



**************************************** 

Scene XII: Faces Out of the Darkness 

"Why did you turn out the lights? 

Didn't you know that I was sleeping?" 

--The Cranberries, Empty

****************************************



The one thing Wufei did not expect to see when 

he stepped into the room that night was the 

dark-skinned boy standing by the doorway, 

staring straight at him as he walked in carrying a 

paper bag full of groceries. 



"Where's Heero?" Wufei said, not bothering to 

say hello. The bag started slipping from his grip 

and he stopped, set it down by the chipped table 

next to the mirror. 



Darkflight shrugged. "I don't know. Haven't seen 

him." 



"He wasn't in the room when you got here?" 



Darkflight shrugged again, and Wufei watched 

his back for a moment before turning away, 

reaching into the bag of groceries, pulling out a 

slightly wrinkled orange and a loaf of bread. The 

window was open on the other side of the room 

and the last light of evening stained the floor and 

walls a pale, ghostly blue-gray. There was no 

wind. He dug one fingernail into the skin of the 

orange, ignoring the juice that squirted onto his 

face, methodically peeling strip after strip, 

dropping them onto the floor. 



"Want some?" Holding out the finished product, 

scarcely the diameter of his hand. 



Darkflight shook his head rather sullenly, turning 

back to his guardian post by the window, and 

Wufei shrugged, slid a slice of orange into his 

mouth. The fruit was bitter, but he chewed, 

swallowed, reached for another piece. Looked 

again at Darkflight standing by the window. 



"Are you waiting for him?" 



There was no need to voice who Wufei was 

referring to. 



"You know I am." A slight curl of the lip. "Not that 

it makes any difference." 



Wufei set down the orange and regarded the 

boy standing by the window, silhouetted by the 

fading light, lean and wiry and far too thin, dark 

skin seeming to absorb the shadows around 

him. 



"Do you still think he'll come back with you?" 



"Leave me alone," Darkflight said, and Wufei 

tensed, ready for the inevitable barrage of 

defensiveness that usually came with that 

statement, something he'd learned through 

traveling with the erratic boy. He had only 

spoken to Heero's former partner a few times, 

but every time it was if he was the one doing 

wrong, he who had taken Heero away from 

where he belonged. 



But Darkflight said nothing after that, lapsed into 

a moody silence that made his skin crawl. He 

was used to silence, but with another person 

around it was uncomfortable, like he should 

speak. He had never had this problem before. 

An aftereffect of his self-imposed solitude, 

maybe. 



"Heero deserves a better life," Wufei said. Not 

trying to convince Darkflight. Just making a 

statement, something that had to be said. 



"Wing doesn't need you," Darkflight said through 

clenched teeth. Emphasis on the name Wing. 

"You don't understand him." 



"We were Gundam pilots together," Wufei said 

calmly. "I think we understand each other pretty 

well.  What are you so afraid of?" he said. 



Darkflight's head turned sharply, and there was 

fire in his eyes. "I'm not afraid of anything," he 

spat, the fight back in his words. "I'm not afraid 

of you." 



"I didn't think you were." Cutting a slice of bread, 

the knife held in his sure grip. "That's not what 

I'm asking." 



"You wouldn't understand," Darkflight bit out. 

"You've never been to L1, have you? The 

Breaks?" 



"I can't say I have." 



"Wing told me about you." The scorn was 

audible in the dark boy's voice. "Rich kid, 

growing up having it all. You had the world 

handed to you on a silver platter. I had to fight, 

to kill, for what I wanted. Wing understands that. 

Wing belongs in the Breaks with me. It's our 

world, and I'm not going to let you take it all 

away!" 



"I'm not taking anything away from you." He put 

the loaf away, the knife, cupping the cut slice of 

bread in his palm. "Look, Darkflight. I know you 

don't like me. And you know what? That's all 

right with me. When this is done, when it's all 

over, I'm not going to choose Heero's path for 

him. If he wants to go back to the Breaks, with 

you, it's up to him. I'm his friend, not his father. 

It's not up to me." 



The dark-skinned boy said nothing, but the 

silence was tense. 



"Or," Wufei said gently, "maybe you're afraid that 

if he remembers what he lost, he won't want 

anything to do with you anymore." 



"You don't understand!" Darkflight said 

desperately, but Wufei could tell that he had hit 

a sore spot. "Don't talk about things you don't 

understand." 



"I'm an assassin too, you know," Wufei said. 

Darkflight's head jerked up sharply, and Wufei 

held his gaze level. "I was trained as a pilot, a 

killer, an assassin, a soldier. I'm all of those 

things. And so is Heero. That's why he's so good 

at what he does. We've both been to places that 

probably equal your Breaks in conditions, so 

don't think that I don't know what it's like there. 

Heero's a free soul. You have to understand 

that. All of us were�we were trained that way." 



"More than trained," Darkflight said. 



Wufei frowned. "What do you mean?" 



"Don't tell me you don't know that," Darkflight 

said. "I thought you knew everything about 

Heero." The name came awkwardly out of his 

mouth, almost like a curse. "Or was I wrong?" 



"You mean the genetic manipulation," Wufei 

said. "How did you know that?" 



"He told me. I do know him." 



Wufei sighed, taking a bite of the bread. 

Darkflight knew much more than he had thought, 

and he supposed he had been wrong in trying to 

judge their relationship before gathering all the 

facts. He regarded the other boy in the dimming 

light, trying to place him on the scale in his mind, 

weighing him. Darkflight was an enigma, a 

mixture of strangeness and eerie familiarity, so 

different from how he used to be and yet the 

same. 



He was not jealous of Darkflight. No, just 

sometimes he felt like an intrusion into their 

world, the private world that the two of them had 

built in the years when he was not there. 



"Just�" Darkflight said, and Wufei turned. The 

other boy's eyes were hooded. "Don't try to take 

him where he doesn't belong. Or you'll have me 

to deal with." 



"I'm not-" Wufei began, then shrugged and 

turned towards the door. "I'm not going to argue 

with you." Opening the motel room door, 

admitting the cheap glare of the streetlights. "If 

he comes back, tell him I've gone out." 



He didn't wait for a response, letting the door 

slam behind him as he trotted down the stairs 

and onto the concrete of the parking lot. The 

moon was rising, a slim crescent in the sky 

surrounded by cloudy stars, and he wondered 

where Heero had gone. 



Neither of them spoke of his drug addiction. It 

was there but unmentioned, just as Darkflight 

was there and unmentioned. Two very tangible 

reminders of the past which would not die, and 

Wufei had no intention of getting rid of either 

one. If Darkflight chose to stay with them, it 

would be to their best interest, and to his as well, 

but Wufei wouldn't be surprised if one day he 

simply wasn't there anymore. The drug addiction 

was a little harder to deal with, but it was not 

something that could be corrected overnight. 

And so he said nothing. 



If it had been two years ago he would have 

sneered at Darkflight's words, ordered Heero to 

stay within his sight at all times, waxed eloquent 

on the nature of the new war they were fighting. 

But it wasn't two years ago, and he was tired. 



There was no going back. 



He hadn't even really known Heero, even when 

the war ended, but now he felt like they had 

known each other all their lives. 



It was a small town in the middle of nowhere, 

which was why he had decided that they'd stay 

here for the night. They had been staying in 

small towns, for fear that someone somewhere 

would recognize either his or Heero's faces from 

some newspaper or television commentary, and 

it would be all over. But in the past few weeks, 

he had felt an insatiable craving to get away, to 

lose himself in the crowds and bright lights of the 

unnamed downtown of some grand city, become 

just one of the shifting blobs that moved with the 

motion of the great ocean of people around him. 

He had not been to a city since�since the riot. 



Geneva was only a few days, hours, perhaps, 

from where they were now, and he wished he 

had a number or access to a computer so he 

could contact Sally. Sally would understand his 

mission, he knew. She'd always understood him, 

even when he had not understood himself. The 

conversation in the hangar that night before he 

had left had haunted him since he'd seen Heero 

Yuy's hard blue eyes staring into his from under 

the mask, but he only remembered bits and 

pieces now. 



The war isn't over - it's just beginning. 



You fought for penance. You're not a fighter, 

Wufei. You're a scholar- or you were. Now, 

you've made yourself into a man who walks two 

worlds. 



She had spoken of Nataku. He had not thought 

of Nataku since they had fled China, but he 

thought of her now, somewhere among the 

stars, perhaps watching him walk down the 

narrow alleyway of a street, searching for 

something he couldn't name. 



No matter what you do, you will be searching for 

your place in this life. What I'm worried about is 

that you won't find it. 



Maybe Sally was right. 



There were a few bars and shady places open in 

what could be considered the center of the dingy 

town, and he glanced as his reflection in the 

dirty glass as he passed shop after shop. He 

needed a haircut, he decided, while evaluating 

the fringe of hair hanging down over his ears 

and his eyes. He had lost his hairband and 

never bothered to find another one. His face was 

haggard, tired, and there were dark circles under 

his eyes, a bruise on his left cheek. Where had 

that come from? 



"Lost?" 



Wufei jumped and realized that he had stopped 

walking, had been staring into the same 

darkened shop window for at least a few 

minutes. The voice came from behind him and 

he turned warily, coming face to face with a 

tough-looking, dark-haired young man. His face 

was friendly but closed, and he was looking 

curiously into the shop window. Looking, Wufei 

realized, at his reflection. 



"I'm just thinking," he automatically said in 

Japanese, and the man's face cleared before 

Wufei realized that he had been addressed in 

thick, accented English. 



"So you speak Japanese. Not many people 

around here who do." 



"I speak Japanese," Wufei said shortly, not 

wishing to strike up a conversation with a 

stranger who might recognize his face. It was 

entirely dark now, with the only light coming from 

the few streetlights along the road and the 

blinking neon signs of the bar several buildings 

down, but he couldn't afford to take chances. 

"What do you want?" 



The man shrugged, stuck out his hand. 

"Yoroshiku. Machida Varis." 



"That's not a Japanese name," Wufei said, 

curious despite himself, as he reached out to 

shake the man's hand. 



Varis laughed. "You're right. Last name 

Japanese, first name Latvian. My beloved mama 

was from Latvia, and she named me. Father 

was from L1 and met her when he came to 

Earth to study at the Academy." 



"The Academy?" The hair on the back of his 

arms pricked and he suddenly cursed himself for 

leaving his gun at the motel. The knife was 

securely strapped to the back of his leg above 

his shoe, and to get to it he would have to act 

quickly�"What Academy?" 



"Lake Victoria Academy, of course. There's only 

one." Watching him closely. 



With one quick motion he bent and whipped the 

knife from under his leg, a breath of air passing 

close to his face as he shoved the man against 

the closed doorway of the shop and pointed the 

knife at his throat. "What do you want?" he 

hissed. 



Varis' expression didn't change. He was about 

as tall as Wufei was, but compactly built, and it 

had been two years since the war. If he wanted 

to kill him� 



"You're still as good as ever," Varis said. 



Wufei blinked. "What?" 



Surprisngly, Varis didn't move, let himself be 

pinned by the knife, looking at Wufei 

appraisingly. "I recognize you, Chang Wufei, but 

I doubt you'd remember me." 



"What are you talking about?" he said, bringing 

the knife a little closer to the man's throat. "If you 

want to talk your way out of this, it won't work. I 

don't plan on being captured or killed by the likes 

of you." 



"Actually," Varis said, "It's the opposite. I'd like to 

join you." 



Wufei blinked again. "You WHAT?" 



"If you'll let go of me," Varis said, "I'll explain." 

For the first time Wufei noticed that the bulging 

blue vein on the man's forehead was twitching 

ever so slightly. "I promise, I won't lay a hand on 

you. I'm not here to kill you." 



For a frozen second Wufei hesitated, then 

stepped away, pointing the knife in front of him. 

"I'm counting on your word." 



"My word is my honor," Varis said, and for the 

first time a hard look came into his eyes. "Ever 

since the war ended, that's all I really have left." 



"You fought�in the war?" A question more of 

surprise than of actual curiosity, but Varis didn't 

answer. Instead, he put a hand to the pocket of 

his dark, threadbare pants, and Wufei stepped 

forward threateningly. 



"It's not a weapon." 



"I'm not taking any chances," Wufei retorted. 

"How do you know my name?" 



Varis snorted. "Everyone knows your name." 

Still rummaging in his pocket. "It's only been in 

the prime news spot every day since it first came 

out. Your name and picture�I'd be surprised if 

half the world population doesn't have every 

name and face of you and your friends 

committed to memory." 



"Like you?" He put scorn into the words. 



"I didn't have to memorize," Varis said. "I already 

knew." 



Before Wufei could respond to that, a hard metal 

object was thrust into his hand, and he looked 

up to see Varis nodding towards it. "Do you 

recognize that?" 



He turned it over in his fingers, the knife 

forgotten. It was a badge, a sword with serrated 

wings centered in the middle of a crest of fire. 

The thing seemed made entirely of silver, 

shining in the glare of the streetlights, and he 

ran his fingertips over the bottom where words 

were carved, in English. 



SPECIAL OPERATIONS 



It took a moment for the meaning to hit him, and 

he gripped the badge in suddenly tightening 

fingers, remembering his sojourn aboard the 

Peacemillion, the hangar where the Gundams 

were kept, the soldiers who had worn the black 

uniforms and carried the guard rifles. Elite 

forces, Sally had called them. Security 

measures, in case White Fang or Romefeller 

decided to infiltrate the ship. 



The face of the young guard that had manned 

the night shift for hangar security, never 

speaking, just nodding to him as he passed in 

and out through the hangar doors. He had never 

known his name. 



"I remember you," he said softly. "You were the 

guard in the hangar�you were in charge of 

security in B sector." 



Varis reached out, took the badge from Wufei's 

hand. The lines of his face were familiar now, 

though they were years older, covered in dust 

and grime. "It's been a long time. I didn't know if 

you'd recognize me." 



"You always did a good job," Wufei said. Feeling 

foolish for his initial reaction, he leaned down 

and replaced the knife in the sheath of his shoe. 

"Thank you." 



Varis shrugged. "Not that it helps any now, does 

it?" Rummaging in his pocket again, pulling out 

another object. "Here." 



It was an electronic identification card, with the 

thin metal strip running down one side and 

information printed on the other side in both 

English and Japanese. MACHIDA VARIS, D. 

PREVENTERS SPECIAL FORCES. 



Wufei ran his thumb down the edge of the card, 

feeling the plastic dig into his skin. The wind was 

getting colder, and he regretted not bringing a 

heavier jacket. The dead light of the streetlamps 

hovered in the air above the deserted road. 

"Who sent you?" 



"Actually, no one. I'm one of the contact points 

for the Eastern Asian border." 



Wufei glanced warily at him. "I'm not sure I 

should believe that story." 



Varis laughed. "I know Lady - General Une 

about as well as you do, and believe me, she 

didn't send me. She has no idea where any of 

you are, and neither did I. You five did a very 

good job of hiding your whereabouts after the 

war. I'm a trained professional. Intelligence, 

covert operations, criminal tracking, you name it, 

I can do it, but I couldn't find you. And believe 

me, I tried." 



Wufei's lip twisted. "All of us are trained 

professionals too. When we don't want to be 

found, we won't be." 



"I know that too. I'm actually lucky I managed to 

track you down." 



"And how did you do that?" Varis held out his 

hand for his ID, but Wufei pulled it away. 



"I'm running a little low on trust right now. You 

give me your story first." 



Varis shrugged again. "Why not? After the war I 

joined the Preventers, not because I wanted to, 

but because it was what any sane young man 

would do who had been in the elite security 

forces during the war, had no civilian skills 

whatsoever, and had no place to go. My parents 

fought for OZ, were killed about halfway through 

the war, and I had no close family. 

Sally�General Po knew I was good, so she was 

the one who suggested that I put in a request for 

Special Forces." 



"I thought you were already Special Forces," 

Wufei said. 



"There's an application process�they don't 

accept right away. Rather complicated. Long 

story short, I got in. My first assignment I stayed 

in Geneva, and I'd just got moved here to 

investigate a crime ring when the Gundam story 

broke. I didn't get any specific information from 

headquarters, but I was informed by my superior 

officers to�keep an eye out for suspicious 

behavior." 



"So you were sent." 



"Not directly to find the pilots, no," Varis ran a 

hand through thick black hair. "And actually, I 

spotted you outside of that little town in northern 

China where you stopped about two nights ago. 

Been following you ever since." 



"So then why didn't you show yourself sooner?" 



"I had to make sure. It has been two years. 

Who's that dark-skinned boy with you?" 



"Just someone I know," Wufei said shortly. 

"None of your business." 



"Someone you know? Or someone-" 



Wufei shoved him against the side of the 

doorway, clamping a hand over the soldier's 

mouth. "Look here. You might know who we are 

and have our best intentions in mind, but I'm not 

taking any chances. You mention his name and 

I'll have to kill you right here and now. And I am 

a trained assassin, no matter how good you are. 

You can't get away." 



Varis nodded, and Wufei released his grip, 

stepping back. He held the identification card 

and Varis took it, stuffing it back in his pocket. 

"Deal," he said. "I won't mention�him. And I 

haven't contacted headquarters, if that's what 

you were worried about." 



"I'd rather get there myself," Wufei muttered. 

"Don't want to make a scene." 



"If you don't mind�" Varis began, and Wufei 

shook his head. 



"No. You're not coming with me. Go back to 

where you came from." 



"I'd be helpful," he said. 



Wufei snorted. "You'd only get in the way. I can 

find my way to Geneva from here." 



"How are you going to get in?" 



Wufei narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?" 



"They don't just open the base gates to anyone, 

you know. You need an identification card." 



Wufei sighed, exasperated. "Why are you so set 

on coming with me? I'm a wanted terrorist. You 

don't want to hang around the likes of me." 



There was a short pause, and for the first time, 

Wufei saw an expression come into Varis' eyes, 

a faint look of hopeful longing. "I want to help," 

he said. "I'm not doing any good�stuck out 

here. You know?" He looked young, suddenly, 

the same as he had looked two years ago on the 

Peacemillion. "I know you're innocent�I want to 

help prove that. I just want to get back there so I 

can do something!" 



The passion in his voice was quiet, but audible, 

and for a moment, Wufei hesitated, still tempted 

to say no, this isn't a fight for soldiers like you. 

This is my fault, my penance. This is�all 

because of me. 



"Fine," he heard himself say. "We'll take you to 

Geneva�if you can get us into the base." 



"That's what this is for," Varis answered, patting 

his pocket. He was smiling slightly. 



"And if I find out you're lying to us," Wufei said, 

"or if I even have the slightest doubt in my mind 

about where your true loyalties lie�" he trailed 

off, turning and looking the soldier full in the 

face, making his words hard and cold. 



"I will kill you."



END 6.3




	     .---Anime/Manga Fanfiction Mailing List----.
             | Administrators - ffml-admins@anifics.com |
             | Unsubscribing - ffml-request@anifics.com |
             |     Put 'unsubscribe' in the subject     |
             `---- http://ffml.anifics.com/faq.txt -----'